The Difference Maker
by Golden Panther
Summary: An American Lt. experiences mental and spiritual trauma as he is blamed for the death of his best friend. As he navigates through the streets of London, he befriends an Oxford professor who assists him through the trials and tribulations of his very soul. Cast: C.S Lewis, Warren "Warnie" Lewis, Joy Davidman, J.R.R Tolkien, various Narnia characters, OC. Inspired by true stories.
1. Chapter I

**"THE DIFFERENCE MAKER"**

"Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important."

\- C.S. Lewis

* * *

 **Dedicated to:**

C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)

Warren H. "Warnie" Lewis (1895-1973)

J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973)

* * *

 **Chapter I**

* * *

 _ **16 Park Road**_

 _ **London, England**_

 _ **Midday**_

On a snowy New Year's Day in 1946, a patient stood in his doctor's doorway. Ordinarily, this would not cause alarm or suspicion, for this patient was not by any means attractive. He was short, somewhat round towards the middle and was poorly dressed, sporting only a brown waistcoat with a tarnished pocket watch that was frozen in place at precisely 12:22:53 in the morning.

Fixing his dark hair and facing a door that pre-dates the century, this man of thirty-four, who at one point was an undergraduate student at the University of New York, looked up at a second story window and thought how inconsiderate it was of Miss Bradley, the doctor's secretary, to leave the bedroom light on.

The nerve of that woman, he thought, you'd think that after your boss' untimely demise that you would show respect and turn off the light. I mean, not that it matters, he's dead, but I wouldn't necessarily be happy if someone left the light on in a room I was sleeping in and they knew I was sleeping there. It's just inconsiderate and rude.

He straightened out his white shirt, which was untucked from his trousers, which were somewhat decrepit to begin with- it was as if he decided to find an old county road somewhere and roll around in dust and grime as a motorcar passed, and knocked on the door.

Footsteps that descended from a staircase sounded more like an elephant walk than a person answering a door, for they were loud, boisterous, and heated.

"Who is it?" Miss Bradley asked somewhat sternly from behind the door.

"It's Sam." The man answered, "Are you going to let me in or are you going to let me freeze to death?"

"That depends," she replied, "are you here to grieve or are you here to stab someone else in the back like you did Mister Wavell."

Sam sighed regretfully, for ever since Christmas he was given the accusation of being at fault for the death of his physician. Seeing his breath dissipate into the air like a memory leaving him, Sam placed his hand on the door again.

"Ma'am," he said, letting his American accent show, "I didn't kill him. If I did I wouldn't be here right now asking to come into his house. I would be wallowing instead."

"Until you show me your evidence, I suggest you go back where you came from." Miss Bradley said as she took a step away from the door, expecting to hear footsteps leaving the small porch and walking towards the Thames, but no such action was heard nor was it committed. Instead all the woman witnessed was the silence of one man's grief, and the silence of a dead doctor's house.

Sam stood there for a moment and even though he wanted to knock on the door again, he didn't. For he understood that, despite the claim being nonsense, the notion that he was responsible for the death of Tilden Pearson Wavell was an accepted theory, even among his friends who were witnesses. Sam sighed in defeat and nodded slowly.

"Have a blessed year ma'am." He said. Sam turned and descended a short staircase before disembarking down the sidewalk which lead to the slow, dreary moving river that honestly didn't care if an American who served in a ghastly war cried on the way to St. Paul's or not. All it knew was that it was New Year's, and that Britain and the world, was finally in a year without a war.

In St. Paul's Cathedral sat a British writer and was not the sort of person you would expect to spend New Year's in an empty church. However, there he was sitting in a pew admiring the soaring ceilings and the beautifully adorned walls which were populated with angelic choirs that consistently sung of Hallelujah as if it were the only task worth performing with breathing being the only exception, when the priest, Thomas Craig, entered the sanctuary carrying a small green Bible in hand.

Dressed in priestly robes, Thomas walked over to the man in the pew with a smile on his face. "Happy New Year, sir." Thomas said, "May I sit down?"

Having wrinkles along the brow, slightly graying and receding hair, but a smile that spoke of tenderheartedness and good will towards all who spoke with him, the writer turned towards the priest and noticed that was he his senior by thirty-seven years.

"Not at all," the writer answered moving over a bit expecting Thomas to sit down next to him. Instead, the priest chose the pew directly in front and scooted down slightly so he could turn and see the writer better.

"What brings you to St. Paul's?" Thomas asked, "Don't you have family to celebrate the occasion with?"

The writer nodded and smiled but spoke rather solemnly as if he had lost the happiest person in his life. "I do," he said, "They are aware that I'm here. However if you must know the reason, Father Craig, I'm here because a dear friend of mine has recently passed and this was his church."

"I see," Thomas replied, "may I ask whom it was?"

"Tilden Wavell, sir." The writer answered. "Did you happen to know him?"

Thomas looked out into space for a moment, his old brain trying to remember the name. He looked towards the main door and closed his eyes, trying to imagine every person that usually walks through it. Finding everyone from Martin "Sully" Sullivan, the local baker who bakes wonderful croissants on Saturdays to Pauline Fryer, a tailor's wife who frequently performs his job due to his incompetence, in his mind, Thomas could not place the face nor the name of Tilden Wavell. The priest opened his eyes and turned towards the writer again, noticing that he had opened a Bible and had it turned to Psalm 10.

"Befitting passage for someone who is in grief," Thomas said. "Do you mind telling me something about this Tilden Wavell of yours?"

The writer read a verse in his head before closing the Bible and placing it back where he found it. He then looked to Thomas and thought of a memory that for him, accurately summed up all one ever needed to know about Tilden Wavell. As his mind raced to find fondness, a knock sounded on the door. It traversed through the pews and up into the dominion of the angels, who looked down on the writer and Thomas in anticipation for one of them to open the door.

The priest slowly moved for the door. The writer simply turned to watch, imagining that this old man of faith was walking on a floor towards a church door, but rather that he walked on a path flanked by tress which were adorned by beautiful white flowers. He saw birds beckoning the morning as a gentle spring wind blew leaves in their rehearsed dances, and for a moment actually wanted to go to this place with him ether so that he could experience something or dwell in his fantasies. All Thomas saw was a doorway and nothing more.

"Can I help you?" Thomas asked upon opening the large door and beholding Sam. The priest noticed two small rivers, one for each eye were running down his face and upon this, Thomas embraced him warmly.

"There, there, son," he said, letting Sam go and ushering him in from the cold and snow. "You're safe in this House of God."

Sam walked into the room seeing row upon row of empty pews and row upon row of a silent unseen procession. He turned towards the writer and nodded simply to him as Sam took a seat in the front pew. Thomas followed Sam and repeated the same welcome.

"Happy New Year sir, may I sit down?"

Sam nodded and scooted over to the left. Thomas sat down next to him and asked the same question as before.

"What brings you to St. Paul's, don't you have family to celebrate the occasion with?"

Sam shook his head but said nothing. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer and looked up towards the dome, looking akin to Caravaggio and Botticelli's work. The eyes looking elsewhere above, the body regretful of the past, the clothes shaded and dark and illuminated in light as if all sins were diminishing and vanquished forever. The angels who were above Sam smiled and looked up towards heaven, pleading to God to permit the sun to come out from the clouds and light the poor man's heart.

The writer returned to his Bible passage but intently listened to the prospect of hopeful conservation, pondering the reason as to why this man, with no coat and no means of family had come. The reason is obvious, the writer thought, for he is grieving just like me. He needs God and Love now more than any point in his life. I pray that you find his heart and mend it, Lord. For the needs of his are greater than those of mine, and even though I weep, he cries out for you more.

Sam was completely content on saying nothing, on leaving the conversation one-sided and allowing the priest to sit there with him, talking to himself like he would a brick wall while he just admire the ceiling. However, Sam discovered the world again and shifted his gaze from the roof to the altar. The small Crucifix which rested on the table, was humble, just as the man who bleed on it was, looked over to Sam and whispered to him words of love.

Thomas turned towards the altar, smiled a moment, and stood. "Would you mind standing for me please?" He asked.

Sam nodded in silence and noticed that Thomas had outstretched his hands as if he wanted him to grab them. Instinctively doing so without being asked, Sam wondered if Thomas was going to do thing the stereotypical thing of priests or to do the just thing of priests and what the man was going to do about it. Thomas, who was smiling back at Sam and taking a moment to himself to admire him, was laughing as he thought of all the absurd nonsense the former academic was thinking.

"You needn't fear of me," Thomas assured, "I'm simply wanting to know if you believe you are loved."

Sam let go of Thomas' hands and allowing his own to fall to his side and flop as he were made of pasta noodles. He then resumed his seat and sighed.

"No sir," Sam said, "I do not believe I am loved."

"Ah," Thomas replied, as he too sat back down, "well I'm sorry to say it my son, but you're wrong. You are most certainly loved by someone."

"Really?" Sam continued, raising his voice as if he were arguing with a spouse over something menial. "Because my friend, my doctor, died last night and no one seems to notice or care what I'm going through."

The writer, who moved on to a passage in Matthew, and looked up from his reading. Perhaps we are here for the same reason, good sir, would it bother you if I asked a question such as:

"What was this friend's name?"

Sam turned to the man with the hopeful eyes and for the first noticed his face which was truly intrigued to the question he asked, as if the answer to it might provide him with some sort of ending to an unfinished chapter in the book of his life.

"His name was Tilden Wavell, sir." Sam said, "May I be so kind as to ask yours?"

The writer of forty-eight stood from his pew and once again closed his Bible and placed it back where he found it. As he walked towards Sam and Thomas, he stretched out his hand preparing for a handshake and ever so slowly a smile reached his face and by the time he stopped in front of Sam and Thomas standing between them and the altar, he looked happier than a child on Christmas morning.

"Professor Lewis," he said, "but most friends call me Jack."

Sam smiled as he shook Lewis' hand, admiring the man's mature grip. "Why do they call you Jack?"

"I haven't the slightest idea." Lewis replied as he let Sam's go. "Now that you know my name," he continued, "May I be so kind as to ask yours?"

"Sam Blake," Sam obviously replied, "how did you know him, Tilden I mean?"

"Ah, Doctor Wavell was a good friend that I met during the Great War. It was while I was living with Paddy, a dear friend, when I first saw him walk across the street. I thought he was rather peculiar, a mouse walking around the street as if it had somewhere to be, so I walked over and followed him to his destination, which I was surprised to learn was an Irish pub. Anyway, when I thought he was going to walk in he turned around, smiled, and said in an understandably rude way, 'Go stalk someone else, you psychopath!'"

"I'm sorry," Thomas said, cutting Lewis off and shaking his head in disbelief at what his ears had just heard. "But are you implying that a mouse had somewhere to be and that it actually talked to you?"

"Well I'm not sowing and reaping a cheap lie if that's what you're implying." Lewis replied turning towards the priest and smiling a bit as the poor old man simply turned and crossed the room.

"I find it best," Lewis continued, laughing and raising his voice a little so that way it carried further, "if you look at it this way, at least I'm not in a ward!"

Sam laughed and walked back towards the door. "Sorry to leave you professor, but I best be going now."

Lewis followed somewhat slowly, giving Sam room to breathe and himself room to think, "I thought you said you hadn't a family to go home to."

"I don't." Sam replied, "But that doesn't mean I don't have things to do, Professor."

Jack nodded and noticed that Sam's right arm was stiffer than the other, almost as if he were the Tin Man who ran out of oil in his can. "Suffer an injury?" Jack asked.

"Wounded in the war," Sam said, "Tilden saved me from it."

Even though Jack was ten years older than Sam, the writer from Oxford made an effort to stride speedily past him and open the door, not personally caring if the snow ruined his hair or if the weather blew inside. When Sam reached the threshold he turned towards him and smiled.

"Thank you sir."

"On the contrary," Jack said, closing the door as he passed, "Thank you sir, for giving them hell and coming back from it."

Sam did not answer back, instead he smiled and took a right down the un-shoveled sidewalk. Jack Lewis, who did not follow him, watched as his brother's motorcar, a 1939 ivory colored Armstrong Siddeley, turned round a corner and slowly began to halt to a stop. Warren, better known as Warnie, honked the car horn to attract his brother's gaze. Jack simply held up his hand and called to Sam before he became out of earshot.

"May I ask where it is you're heading?"

Sam turned around and noticed that the car and Jack stood waiting for an answer, "Nowhere in particular," he said, "just anywhere that takes me somewhere."

"Would you consider me as an anywhere?" Jack asked, walking to Warnie's car and opening the front passenger door. "That is if you have something better to do than to partake in a cup of coffee."

Sam walked back towards the church, thinking to himself the insanity of getting into a professor's car. As he passed the vehicle he noticed Warnie who was extremely patient as Jack still stood there outside with the door open. Sam turned towards the two of them and smiled, "So, what happened next, after he told you to leave?"

Jack smiled, and entered the car, knowing full well that he had enticed Sam enough to come and talk with him about their mutual friend some more. Before he closed the door he looked up at him and motioned for him to get in the back. Sam did so, and when he was in the seat and the door was shut Jack answered his question. "I left."

Sam laughed at this, even though it wasn't particularly funny, but simply the thought of his friend telling someone like Jack to go stalk someone else for a change was humorous enough to him and he thought of his own story to tell as Warnie drove down the street and back across the Thames.


	2. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

* * *

 _ **East Union Street**_

"Ugh, there's never good parking on this street." Warnie complained as he shifted his motorcar into first gear and slowed down as he searched down East Union.

It was a quaint boulevard of coffee shops with green roofs and apartments with red awnings and iron grated balconies. The street was lined with blue and green mailboxes and lampposts with faded iron and dusty casings with old mercury lightbulbs.

Mister Julius Martin, a baker on lived on Percy Street a block and a half down, was making his rounds with his bread cart full of beautiful raised loafs of fresh wheat, rye, and pumpernickel. On the bottom of the cart was an assortment of cakes and cookies: snickerdoodle, sugar, and oatmeal raisin cookies with red velvet, carrot, and lemon cakes. With a loud, proud, and boisterous voice, he called out his prices and selection:

"Wheat and Rye, 10 pounds, Pumpernickel, 13 pounds, all pastries, 7 pounds!"

Jack turned towards Sam who busy looking at the sights of London. The American rolled down his window and took a whiff of the bread and with a smile and a wave called out to Julius. "You have fair products!"

"Warnie, stop the car, I think our friends wishes to buy some bread." Jack said taking the hint.

Warnie shook his head out of slight frustration, noticing that the street parking was full save for an impossible spot that was directly in front of their destination, Café 171, the only decent coffee shop on this block.

"Jack, if you think I am going to park in that spot, you are just as insane as John."

Jack laughed to himself and rolled down his window. Sticking his head out, he noticed that the parking spot was feasible if his brother were extremely careful. The spot was sandwiched in between a red two seater 1939 AC and a blue 1924 Ford Model T.

"Warnie," Jack said, "time to prove your license. Parallel park nice and slow."

Warnie Lewis sighed, thinking to himself that one day Jack would be the death of him. As he moved past the AC slightly and reared his head back, he politely asked Sam to duck so he could see well. A woman in her late thirties with a baby stroller in hand walked out of the coffee shop and directly into the spot that Warnie was desperately trying to maneuver into. At the same time, another motorcar, an elegant, brown 1943 Morgan was coming up on the oncoming traffic side of the street, and the driver, a woman by the name of Mrs. Joy Davidman honked her horn twice with a disposition of a person who simply hated the religious sector and those involved. For her eyes were clouded with one-sidedness and by the way her impatience was coming along, her heart fared no better. Warnie looked at Mrs. Davidman a moment, shook his head but said nothing as he continued rather slowly his effort at parallel parking. Jack continued his watch.

"You can move slightly faster, you know." Jack said noticing that the woman with the baby carriage had safely crossed the street.

Warnie wearily shifted the gear to second and slowly but surely backed his way into the space. Sam meanwhile, kept his head down and was beginning to develop a crick in his neck. He did not mind in the slightest though and laughed at the cigarette butt that he found in the back seat, for it reminded him of his late friend.

"Professor Lewis," Sam said, "are these cigarettes Benson and Hedges?"

"No," Warnie answered, "State Express 555. My personal favorite. Why do you ask?"

Sam picked up the used fag and sniffed the ashy end. He smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, just memories of the regiment, that's all."

"Oh, you served?" Warnie said, intrigued at the prospect of conversing with a veteran of the war. He picked up his pace at driving and turned towards his brother.

"Am I good Jack?"

"You're fine on this end." Jack replied as he resumed his seat and thought about what he would order to drink. As for Mrs. Davidman, who was thankfully not joining them for coffee because apparently that is beneath her, she finally put her radical vehicle in motion and shot a disapproving glare with cold, ice filled eyes toward Warnie Lewis. Warnie himself scoffed and parked the motorcar relatively close to the other two.

"You can lift your head now Mister Blake." Warnie said with a sigh, not believing that he was stuck in a place on the road that he knew was going to be just as difficult to get out of as it was to get in.

Sam lifted his head and unfastened his seat belt. Smiling at both Lewis' who were sitting in front of him, he turned towards Warnie and then to Jack and noticing that they were looking at him as if expecting a word, twiddled his thumbs a moment. "Well, gentlemen, to prevent awkwardness from developing any further I think I should leave you to your coffee."

The American opened the car door and shut it rather forcibly, as if to signal his departure from his assistance. Jack and Warnie turned towards each other and Warnie, examining his brother rather carefully, understanding completely well what that sparkle, that special glint in his eye meant.

"Jack," Warnie said sternly with a sigh, "don't you even start."

"Start what? My dear Warnie, I do not intend to start anything, merely repair what is broken." Jack Lewis replied with a soft smile as he exited the vehicle and shut the door with great finesse. Looking down the street, Jack noticed that Sam walked with a sense of indifference as if he no longer cared who he was or where he was going. As Sam turned the corner, walking towards Percy Street, Jack turned towards his brother and shook his head with a sigh. Warnie groaned and turned the key back towards the ignition and placed the motorcar back into drive.

"Jack," Warnie said as he dangerously maneuvered back onto the road. "You are walking home. I hope you realize that."

Jack smiled and laughed. "I know, thanks Warnie."

"Oh no, no need to thank me, I just play chauffer to the biggest lummox in all of Oxford!" Warnie shouted with a smile, for he really knew that he was the biggest lummox, John was a close second, and Jack was a distant third.

"Why do you care so much about him anyway, what did he do to deserve such affection? You aren't going the other way are you?"

Jack shook his head. "No, I am not going the other way, and it is called homosexual, and I simply wish to help him. He knew Tilden, Warnie. He was there when he died."

Warnie stopped his cautious driving and turned towards his brother with eyes full of strict sincerity. It was as if Jack was letting the love of his life get away from him and all Warnie could do was stare in blank confusion.

"Well, this does explain a lot. Order me a latte with extra crème, now if you'll excuse me," he said as he cut his wheel to an extreme left. "I'm going to play coaxing historian."


	3. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

* * *

When he was clear to go, Warnie Lewis drove down the street away from the Thames as fast as he could. Taking the first right and then the next right, ending up on Percy Street, the professor of history at Oxford thought that what he was doing was, in retrospect, Lady Godiva, parading around on a metal horse nude whilst looking for a lover to woo.

Sam meanwhile, walked down the street with the smell of cinnamon bread up his nose. An Italian baker with a warm disposition and a flour stain on his apron.

"Excuse me." Sam said, walking in the warm shop that still had wreaths and white Christmas lights up.

The Italian Baker, Marco Minichiello, turned from his counter cleaning and smiled. "Ah, welcome sir- how may I help you?"

"Can I have some of that cinnamon bread, please?"

Sam walked over to a small table and sat down. He looked around the walls and noticed that the paint was a tan color that was supposed to represent Italian architecture. A picture of a man in a morning suit next to a golden retriever hung on the wall and Sam thought that this person was extremely happy despite the frown on his face.

Marco pulled out the bread and sliced it up in pieces. He walked to the table and sat down across from Sam. "Unless you do not mind?"

Sam shook his head and welcomed the company with an open hand. They silently ate the bread. The price of it was two shillings.

Warnie pulled onto the street and put the car in park, this time there were no Mrs. Davidmans around to make a mess of his parking, which was not perfect, but not the worst. As he exited the car and looked down the street, the snow gently cascaded down onto the motorcars and into the old shops of the Old Town. An old woman rang a small bell and there was a sign next to her that read:

 **The New Year Brings Joy and Christ in the Hearts of Men**

Walking towards the woman, who was elderly and shivering from the cold day, Warnie checked his pockets and found a sixpence. He placed the coin the small red bucket and without words or even so much as a look offered her his coat. The woman smiled, her grin showing a few missing teeth but her eyes speaking of the greatness kindness in all of the world.

"Sir," she said, "I've been standing out here for three hours, and you are the first person to give kindness today."

Warnie smiled rather awkwardly and bowed his head. "Think nothing of it, Miss."

"Joan, Joan Peters."

"Warnie Lewis."

He extended his hand, and she hers and they shook hands, one hand was crisper than the other, more firm, whilst the other was flimsy and feeble. The one a justice seeking philosopher, the second a veteran of life, whose experience far surpassed the realm of book knowledge and worldly pursuits. There was a transcendence of those silly things years ago. For this hand, and the person who owned it, Miss Joan Peters, was speaking out to the unexperienced a simple truth – kindness, non-partisan and non-biased kindness, the purest form of it, is what the meaning of her sign stems from.

Warnie did not necessarily know this. Instead, he knew that she was cold and he was starting to get that way.

"Miss Peters, did you happen to see a young man come this way?"

Joan let his hand go and looked down the road a moment, she paused and rang her little silver bell again.

"I believe so. Did he have black hair, disheveled somewhat, and appeared to be looking for a place to hide?"

Warnie nodded. "Yes, Miss."

Joan turned towards him and pointed down the street towards Marco's Bakery.

"He walked into Marco's, nice man that Italian is, he'll take care of him for you."

"Thank you Miss." Warnie said with a smile and just because he was feeling generous, a quick embrace. Joan embraced him back and smiled.

"Thank you sir. Have a blessed day."

"You too."

Warnie let her go and walked down the street; as he made his way he smelled the cinnamon of the shop there was a smile from ear to ear and a quaint childhood laugh. Standing in the window, he noticed that Marco and Sam were talking over bread and coffee. There was happiness there, Warnie believed, judging by the smile of the older Italian and the younger American who was in obvious need.

 _He's practically screaming for it._ Warnie thought as he walked through the door, a smile on his face and a glance towards Mister Minichiello.

"Hello sir."

Marco stood up from his chair and politely excused himself from Sam's story of the rush of Crucifix Hill.

"Can I help you sir?" Marco replied with a rubbing of his hands on his apron which was covered in tan colored flour and icing.

"Just a coffee for me." Warnie said as he motioned for the vacant chair next to Sam and before any permission could be given he sat down.

Sam sipped his coffee, his mind completely confused as to why the driver of the man whom he met earlier this morning was sitting there.

"I'm sorry," The American extended his hand a moment. "Who are you again?"

Warnie smiled warmly and took Sam's hand with a firm, but inviting grip, as if he were an old friend. "Warnie Lewis, Jack's brother."

"Where's that brother of yours?"

Turning his head and looking out the window, Warnie pointed across the street. "Same place we left him. Sandwich shop. He really wants to talk to you."

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed as he ripped a small piece of bread off. He ate it slowly as if he were torturing Warnie with the agony of waiting for an answer. Marco meanwhile, walked over with the coffee, he sat down in his chair silently and handed to Warnie with a charmingly awkward smile.

"Well," Sam said after his silence. "What about?"

Warnie sighed. "Honestly, I have no idea, but what I do know is that he'll keep bugging you until you do talk to him, so I suggest you go over there and do it."

Sam shook his head. His hands ran through his hair, running through it as if he were trying to search for some sort of response.

"I can't. I just can't, not right now."

With a sigh and nod of his head, Warnie stood and straightened his shirt. "I understand, son."

He fished in his pocket and pulled out a business card, it was thick, contained bold letters and smelled like lavender.

 **W. H. LEWIS, PhD.**

 **Department of History**

 **Oxford University**

 **Tel. 1973**

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind I suppose." Sam said with a weak smile and an extension of the hand.

Warnie smiled and figuring that Sam did not have a business card for himself, shook the American's hand and raised his brow up.

"Is there a way for me to contact you?"

Sam snapped into some sort of business reality and searched his pockets and person. He pulled out the only sort of contact information he could give, the hotel brochure that he swiped from a rickety stand in the lobby.

It was for a local hotel on Baker Street.


	4. Chapter IV

**Chapter IV**

* * *

Jack was enjoying coffee and a bagel with cream cheese and an orange on the side. The waitress, he noticed, wore an ichthys pin that contained a small crucifix in the center. Smiling at the display of faith, Jack looked the waitress in the eye and nodded his head.

"Miss," He said, "Would it be improper of me to tell you that I appreciate your service?"

The Waitress, whose name was Paula, simply scoffed politely at him and nodded. "Yes it would Prof."

"How did you deduce I was a Professor?"

"Because," Paula replied with a sly grin on her face. "You have chalk on your shirt."

"Oh, I suppose I do."

Jack dusted his shirt as best he could. When he was finished he looked up and remembered her answer. He quirked his brow curiously and began to laugh.

"Why, if I may pry a moment, would it be improper for me to appreciate your service?"

"You're trying to get into my pants aren't you Prof.?"

"Rather unlikely, Miss. I am well past the age of courtship and shan't be looking anytime soon. Besides, you are much too small in the waist."

Miss Paula scoffed at Jack's humor and rolled her eyes. "Your point is…?"

"Your ichthys pin, Miss. I find it very pretty. What time is it?"

"Three-sixteen." The waitress answered after looking at her watch. Mr. Lewis smiled a bit more.

"How appropriate. I think I'll have some coffee- black, and a cheese Danish."

Scribbling down his order, Paula looked at Jack, noticing the mature smile on his face and besides the chalk on him, believed him to be rather clean and neat with himself. As a red motorcar passed, Miss Davidman walked down the sidewalk with a large paper brown bag full of groceries- bread, cheese, milk, meats, and two packs of cigarettes.

Warnie entered the deli just as Miss Joy exited the view of Jack, who was looking rather extensively over her, admiring her stride as if she were a valiant soul who was charging bravely into the fray of consumerism and a horrific state of a marriage to a Mr. Gresham, an American poet of little mention or care here.

"Ah, brother, how did the coaxing go?" Jack asked as his brother sat down across from him. Warren observed his brother's jovial behavior, deducing it as perhaps having too much coffee, or not enough.

"Not good. He left, I did not dare follow him. He seemed rather… put off by the proposition." Leaning up in his chair and pulling out a cigarette, he fumbled with his lighter that was being rather temperamental in his pocket.

Paula returned moments later with Jack's coffee and pastry. When she noticed Warnie struggling, she pulled out her lighter which lit on the second attempt. The Professor of History leaned in and nodded his head.

"I won't be having anything thanks."

Paula nodded her head and returned to her business. Jack nodded his head in thanks and watched her leave before returning his attention to his brother's words.

"What did he say to you?"

Warnie sighed as he exhaled smoke, which came out like two dancers in his head. Jack on the other hand, saw his brother as a dragon with a short fuse but too big of a heart to hold a grudge.

"He said 'not right now'. I gave him my business card, if he calls I'll let you know."

Jack nodded and collapsed his hands in thought. Closing his eyes, Mr. Lewis prayed a moment and when he was finished, he slowly consumed his pastry.

* * *

Samuel Blake entered his suite at the Baker Street Hotel just down from the fictional residence of Sherlock Holmes. The place was, in a positive light, livable. It was nearly perfect in terms of cleanliness; for, his books were in alphabetical order, his ties were situated by color on the rack that stood readily by the front door, and his militaristic boots, which were next to his casual shoes, were polished.

The galley kitchen's light flickered, its luminance reflecting across the mint green walls of twenty-years ago and a lone house fly buzzed near a piece of left out bread. The refrigerator, which rarely worked, was working this afternoon as it began to clank and clatter like a dismally functioning automobile. Sam crossed the floor, not removing his shoes and noticing the click and precise measure of the heels as he hit the side of the unit, ceasing its noise.

As Sam entered the living room, he removed his shoes and threw his socks at a wall, at the moment not caring about protocols. His cat, Davis, a black and gray tabby, purred when his owner came home and gently placed himself on top of Sam's feet where he curled up in a ball and fell asleep. When he was certain of Davis' slumber, Sam picked the feline up and petted his back. Mister Blake began to sing a lullaby to himself. He was asleep within few minutes- deciding to follow his friend's advice and take a midday nap.


	5. Chapter V

**Chapter V**

* * *

 _ **Oxford University**_

 _ **Oxford, England**_

 _ **Midday**_

After preparing his tea and lighting his pipe, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien sat in his office going over a manuscript that was beginning to form up into a paragraph about the lifespan of a leaf. It was such a nuisance to him that every word sound correct, be just the right one, and an incorrect or ill befitting word would be shoved into a lexicon between _iniquitous_ and _malicious_. His phone, an olive green rotary with worn paint and rubbed off numbers, rang with such enthusiasm and vigor, that John thought that Treebeard was coming to say hello.

"Tolkien." He said as he always did when answering.

"John- its Warnie."

"Ah, Warren. How are you?" John leaned backward in his chair, tapping a finger on his desk as a student knocked on the door who was immediately dismissed for the time being.

"Fine. I'm calling because Jack and I have come into a spiritual problem."

"Jack being faux again?" John asked with a laugh.

Warnie did not answer that and just sighed, continuing with his conversation.

* * *

Samuel on the other hand, took Davis on a walk, it was rather strange for other people, well, those with dogs, to see a cat on a leash, but to Davis, this was normal procedure number one. Going to the British Museum on an evening like this was regular, especially on this day, for this day was a day that Samuel had been wanting to avoid and whenever they went to the British Museum, it was always for the same reason. To avoid something. It was Davis who looked up at his owner and wondered what it was this time.

Perhaps it was the bad meat in the fridge, the cat thought, gladly, it would have been eaten, for it is certainly not bad enough for the likes of a cat to eat, or perhaps it was his mother, for she had been ill and was expected to pass on soon. Whatever the cat was thinking, it was not the same as his Master but it was at least happier. Today was Doctor Tilden Wavell's birthday. Samuel stood at a crosswalk and was apparently too busy in his grief to know that it was not his turn yet. Davis pulled on the leash and using what quick thinking, the animal pulled Samuel back on the sidewalk, even if he tripped just as motorcars began to make their racket and noise at him, calling him words that are too heinous to repeat back. The cat stared at the man with a gaze of dumfounded-ness suggesting that the animal knew some intelligence that was beyond human understanding- the intelligence of common sense or, as Davis called it, cat-intuition.

* * *

Miss Joy Davidman was having an early supper at a small sandwich shop in which she ordered a roast beef with some Dijon mustard and a salad. It was nothing miraculously life-changing nor difference making. It was simply a supper in a sandwich shop. Peeling back the foil that had a rather distinct crisp sound that you would normally hear with lettuce, Joy discovered that her salad, which was the wrapped, processed through Bristol, and shipped over to the shop, was expired by three days. Frustrated and not necessarily going by her name, she stormed to the counter and demanded with kingly force to replace it… along with a refund and a free coffee. The Cashier, who was a man of twenty-two and was just trying to go home for the evening, had no real quarrel about any of this and gave in to the demands. Joy still wasn't satisfied and asked why the man was so quick to respond.

"Because it is my job, Miss."

Joy rolled her eyes. "Don't pander to me, Boy."

"My name is Paul."

Looking at Paul with severe disdain, Joy Davidman slammed the payment for the meal on the counter and walked out without finishing. As the door shut and the Cashier moved to exit his post, it began to rain at the same moment that Jack Lewis was on his way to a rather interesting session of writing material.

* * *

The meeting of The Inklings was rather dull this evening. Mister Hugo Dyson was discussing a rather boring topic of his treatise on snails, which for some reason received resounding applause from the scientists of the room. Jack was to go next and he was tired and bored of hearing and discussing the same old scientific and fantastical work of John and his comrades. It was almost as if Jack himself were from another world entirely. Just as he was about to stand, a newspaper boy, who was making his evening rounds, knocked on the door. Jack, who was kind enough to answer, smiled and got down to the boy's level as if to make common ground with him.

"Sir. A nurse rang for you. Peter is dying and Lucy is rather sick."

Jack frowned and nodded. "Where are they?"

"Mary's Hospital."

"God Bless you boy." Jack said as he gave him a sixpence and without warning to the others, he dashed himself off to the nearest bus stop.


End file.
